


An Obligation

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cock Sucking, Drug Dealer, M/M, Rescue Mission, almost public fucking, ass fingering, blowjob, stabbings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-22 00:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Mycroft feels an obligation to John for rescuing him. How he shows it is strange. At least to John





	An Obligation

This has turned into a disaster of a rescue mission. I'm in the field in Afganistan to find and recover two of our specialized personnel. Inadvertently they found themselves surrounded by a guerrilla group and are in a small house on the outskirts of a village.  
With me are three of my top agents and we've been discovered and trapped. There's a unit of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers behind us. We've radioed them for assistance, and they work to get us to the rear of their ranks.  
And then make quick work rescuing the men in the house.

" Captain John Watson at your service sir, "saluting me.

"No need for the salute. I'm only a civilian."

"Yes sir," a wry smile on his face.  


" We'll have a helicopter here in moments to remove you to our base. I heard from headquarters there's a plane waiting for all of you to head back to England."

"I'm most indebted to you and your men. Here's my card, please look me up when you are back-London isn't it?-and I'll offer whatever assistance I can. I'd love to have you join me for dinner."

Saluting sharply," it was just another day on the job sir."

* * *

Looking down at my card his face registers surprise.  


"Not used to seeing one so high in the government doing the legwork, sir," saluting me again.  


"These men had secretive information that we had to recover. Captain Watson, you don't have to salute me, and what were you doing out here in the first place? You are a doctor. Shouldn't you be working in one of the hospitals?"  


"We had been recovering some wounded men when we got the call about you, and since we were the nearest unit, I thought we'd take care of it and get you out as quickly as possible."

"Again, thank you, and hope we meet again."

* * *

In the helicopter, John Watson is on my mind. His composure, his ability to lead, the willingness to enter into a terrorist cell and to have his men unquestionably follow him.  
Were it not for the fact that his calling is healing I would hire him as an agent.  
A silent strength about him. Daring, in fact. I'll keep an eye on him for sure.

* * *

Back in England, my influence in the government grows each year, leaving me the head of an extensive network of personnel and staff, most of them MI agents.

* * *

I establish a home in a two-story house in London with a cook and an all-around manservant Peter, who also serves as my driver for my limousine. I'm now mostly busy in the machinations of the everyday workings of politics.

* * *

My assistant is a beautiful, stunning actually, woman, Anthea. Highly efficient in handling my appointments, and people presume we are a couple, which we are not. She has readily agreed to the deception, her salary substantial for an apartment and an enormous wardrobe of her own.

* * *

My life would be settled and quiet except for the fact of my younger brother Sherlock. Seven years younger than I and a constant worry. Never finishing university, he's been in and out of rehab-which I pay for-for heroin and cocaine addiction.  
A thorn in my side, but it's always been my obligation to watch over him.

* * *

I've asked Anthea to keep a file on Captain John Watson and his whereabouts. In time she reports he's been shot and is invalided out of service. He'll be arriving back in London in a month.

* * *

Finding out the exact date is easy, and my car waits at the airport as his plane lands. Standing outside of the vehicle, the door open, he's surprised to see me. He recognizes me. I wasn't sure if he would.

"What are you doing here, meeting some important bloke?"

"You are the important bloke I'm waiting for, Mister Watson." He points his finger at his chest, lifting eyebrows, beaming at the unexpected compliment, "the last person I would call important is myself."

"You'd be surprised. I would like to offer my services to you. Please sit in the car, and we can discuss details."

What a perplexed look I get! But, he shifts into the car, and we move off.

* * *

" Where are you taking me?"

"First, let me say that I'm glad you escaped mutilation and it is only a minor wound. Second, we are transporting you to my house where I offer my hospitality until you can find lodgings."

"I can't accept this. It's not necessary. I'm humbled of course," his head down to humble to face me.

"Nonsense! You saved my life, and it's the best I can do to say thank you. I won't take no for your answer," in my most authoritative voice.

" Mister Holmes, you leave me no choice but to say yes," obviously thunder-struck at my offer.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes, true to his word, arranges everything for my comfort at his home. 

I have a credit card at my disposal, with my name on it and money in a savings account.

Enough money to buy suitable clothes for me. Since being in the Army I have slimmed lots and most of my clothes are baggy on me, especially at the tummy.

* * *

It's disconcerting to having people wait on me, and as a man growing up fending for myself, this is, in some odd way, enjoyable.

Even in the Army, as a Captain, I liked to take on much of the responsibilities before handing it to one of my underlings.

* * *

His home is spacious and given to overstuffed furniture of exquisite taste. My bedroom suite, for that, is what it is, has a parlor, bedroom, and bathroom. I have the run of the house and love having late night snacks in the kitchen with the cook.

* * *

Mycroft, for he won't let me call him by his last name, and I have dinners together, most evenings. The talk is not easy going. Mycroft is a very private man, not giving to frivolities, as he calls them.

* * *

I've enjoyed two weeks rest at Mycroft's house and becoming antsy when he calls me into his home office.

" I know you were an expert marksman with both the rifle and pistol. I'm offering you a position in my organization as an agent. It is exceptional pay and lots of travel. And, you can use my house as your base. I'm enjoying your company. You don't have to give me an answer right now, give it some days to think about it."

"I'm assuming that would involve possibly murder if need be?" He nods a silent agreement.

"I'm flattered, but you know I am a doctor," gripping the sides of the chair and half-standing.

"Of course. That will be an advantage out in the field. You can use both your skills."

"Interesting thought, Mycroft. Yes, give me time."

And I leave his office, settling on the sofa in the sitting room, thinking this new development over.

* * *

I decide to give it a try, and that night I ask more questions of Mycroft and let him know that I'm willing.

* * *

My first assignment is to the north of London to locate an international drug dealer. My partner in this is Frank, and we meet up at a hotel. Nothing fancy, nothing out of the ordinary. We can make contact with one of the dealers quickly. It takes two weeks before we are allowed near the head of the operation, Zack Melton.

Frank is inside the hotel room meeting Melton, and I'm waiting with a squad outside to take Melton in, once the sting has gone down.

Realizing something is not right Melton slips past, runs out of the room, down the steps and out the back door. Frank calls me on my cell, and I run around the back to see Melton turn a corner, open a door and winds up in a run-down building at the edge of the river.  
I take to the back of the building while Frank is in the front. We now have two other agents with us. I keep my eyes on the door and window, but out of the corner of my eye, there's Melton, somehow he's gotten outside, and is in front of me. Surprised to see me he stands still, not moving. 

Bringing him in my sight, gun pointed at him," Melton, we have you covered. Give up," yelling out.

Instead, he raises his hand and there's a gun pointed at me. I shoot, he falls to the ground and running up to him, gun still at the ready, I see he's dead. No regrets.

* * *

It takes me by surprise that I enjoy the killing. I thought that it would be too cold-blooded without the use of war as an excuse. Not so.

* * *

It was such a high, my body responds in a way that I never expect it to do.  
I'm hard, my cock dripping in my trousers. I need a quick release, and when Frank comes over with the other agents I make the excuse I have to pee, and in the corner of the building I pull out my cock and let go.

* * *

Back at the hotel, Frank asks about going for a drink, but I decline and see him as he heads for the elevator and his room. I linger at the desk.

" Do you by any chance know of a good call girl agency."  
The clerk casually picks up a card from the corkboard behind him and hands it to me. 

* * *

I make the call and within twenty minutes have a knock on my door. I have papers with me to show I'm clean, and she shows me hers. She's a stocky woman in late thirties, a bit too much makeup and dark red hair to her shoulders.

" Some rules. I don't swallow, and I don't do ass," as she begins to divest herself of her clothes.

" All I want is a blowjob. Don't need anything else."

"Okay, if that's it," shaking her head and leaving on her bra and panties.

I sit on the bed, she crawls between my legs, and it takes no time at all before I come, letting her dribble it on a towel I had placed on the carpet.  
She leaves, and I lie back on the bed. I'm upset at how worked up sexually I was after the shooting. Even after getting it off the first time I still wanted more. Why has this brought out such a response? Wondering if it will occur again if I have to kill someone.

* * *

Now having time on my hands and back at Mycroft's, I watch telly, play chess with the cook. Mycroft is infrequently home.

* * *

As close-mouthed and uptight as he is with other people, when we're together he relaxes and sometimes a deep genuine, laugh came out echoes out of him.

* * *

"I have your first assignment out of the country. I'm sending you to Austria, where you'll be working with their team. There will be another of my operatives there but will remain in the background unless needed."

Handing me a brown folder, "Heres the file. Read it, memorize it and leave it back on my desk."

* * *

I'm in the Salzburg airport, waiting for my bag when a heavy-set man walks to me, leans close in saying, " get your bag and go outside, the car is pulled up by the door."

Into an old rusty black car and I'm dropped off at a dingy hotel with my scratched-up black suitcase in hand. The clerk hands me a key, after giving her my false name.  
Typical hotel room, tv, and pictures firmly attached to the wall.

* * *

On the bed is a paper which reads,' go to High Club at eight. Ask for Geron.'  
Paper torn into tiny pieces and in toilet, I take out a book from my pack, lie down for a nap.

* * *

Up at six, and knowing this club is within walking distance, I find a cafe, have an open-face sandwich and make my way, with my backpack on to the club.

* * *

Packed with people, mostly in their thirties. The room is dark, flashing lights, loud rap music, smelling of cheap liquor, sweat, and perfumes.

* * *

Behind the bar, a heavily tattooed man, red hair slowly saunters over, chewing gum, "what'll you have?"  


"Do you know a Geron? I was asked to meet him here."  
Without a word, blinking quickly, looking around, he nods in the direction of the dance floor and a couple gyrating.  


"The blonde haired one with the green t-shirt on."  


"Hmm, nice, that his boyfriend, you know?"  


"Nope, just the usual pickup," and moves over to the next man on my right to serve him a drink.

* * *

The blonde is dancing with a guy, although with the gyrations to the loud, fast music it's hard to tell who's dancing with who.  


"Could you put my backpack behind the bar, please?"

The bartender takes it, "can't be sure it'll be here when you need it,"sour face on him.

* * *

Waiting until this song is finished playing and Geron stops moving I saunter over.  
He taller than me by a bunch and has the makings of a drinking stomach.  


"Like your style. Wanna dance?"  
He looks me over, assessing a piece of beef, "yea, you look good,"leering at my pants.

This could be an easy one. We begin dancing, or bouncing if you call it that, and my hand occasionally hits his crotch.  
His eyes light up,"Looking for some?" yelling over the din.

" If I like what I see."

"Follow me," and he walks off the dance floor, to a small room, flicking the light on. It's an office, dirty, papers strewn all over. Once inside, he quickly drops his pants, showing a limp cock, "satisfied?"

"Yep," pulling down my own to show him, "but not in here. Don't want anyone intruding."  
And furtively glancing around, dropping my voice, "do you like to do daring?" Jeering he gets my meaning and with a meaningful nod of his head, "There's a little park nearby?"  


"Good, good. Take me, and quick." I put on my leather gloves while walking outside together, he asks," Do you do rear end?"

"No, but I suck." 

* * *

At the park, there's a small gazebo, and inside he drops his pants. I step closer, my knife coming out of my shirt and stab him multiple times. Quick enough to destabilize him and then kill him.

Rifling through his pockets I find a wallet, small change, and take it all. Looks like a robbery gone sour.

Leaving the area and back to the club to nod a silent yes to the bartender, knowing he is the other operative, and retrieving my backpack, he slides a note and keys to me. 'train station at three am. and locker 44.'

* * *

My body is aflame. I need sex, and now. I have no time to find a good hooker. I step outside and back to the park. Sitting on the ground is a woman, homeless presumably.

" Hundred bucks to blow me," showing her the money.

"Clean?" I fish in my pocket and take out my latest medical exam.

"Phh, could be a fake, but yea. Okay. No come in the mouth, get it?"  
Dropping my pants, she gets her jacket under her knees and gives me her mouth and hands, my orgasm rapid.

* * *

"Arg," as I finish and pick up my pants, throwing the bills on the ground and leaving to head for the train station. Is this going to be the norm for me? Getting sexually high after a kill?

* * *

Locker 44 has a train ticket to Germany, money, reservations to a hotel

I board the train and sleep through to Munich Germany.

* * *

Arriving there I grab a taxi to the hotel. A cleaner, bigger one this time through.  
Entering, giving my false name to the desk clerk, he informs me there's a gentleman to see me. I feel grubby from being without a shower for two days but follow the clerk's finger to the bar.

" Mister Watson, nice to meet you, "not bothering to shake hands.

"What can I do for you?" my tone of voice even.

"I'm sure you want a nice shower and some good food first. And then, a taxi to 15 Karlsruhe Strasse. Meet me there in three hours", slipping off the stool and taking leave. 

* * *

The taxi drops me at a small townhouse, narrow, trapped between two taller buildings. I knock on the door, and the same gentleman opens it. He's heavy-set, big jowled, and bald. Not a word as I enter and he shows me into a small parlor.

"Tea?"

"Yes please," pouring and hands me a cup while he takes one. We sit opposite each other.

"You'll show up at this house at seven. A Mister Flambert will be here. He's the one you want. He takes lots of meds for his heart. He carries them in his jacket pocket. I'll get his jacket and empty the bottles and put placebos in them.  
I'll make an excuse and you two will leave. I don't want you or him to return. Him especially, if you understand me."

Out of his pocket is a large envelope, a lot of Euros spill out.

* * *

Back to the hotel, shower and shave, eat and back to 15 Karlsruhe Strasse where I knock, and the bald man opens the door.

* * *

"Mister Flambert, this is Jim Williams."

I see that Flambert has his suit jacket off. The bald gentleman excuses himself as we sit quietly. 

Obviously, Flambert is not young, at least in his seventies. We don't talk but when the bald man re-enters he's carrying a jacket and seems flustered and asks if we could leave. His business partner is in trouble, and he has to go to him. Excuse. He hands Flambert his jacket back.

" Mister Flambert, let's head out together."

He takes his jacket, puts it on, we say goodbyes to our host. Outside I ask Flambert if he wanted to walk a bit and he agreed.

"Slowly please, I'm not as young as you." The small stores are all closed for the night and finding an alley I push Flambert hard into it.

"What are you doing?" in his German accent. I pull out my gun, point it at him,"give me your money and take off your clothes." He sputters, and I see him shaking. To emphasize this, I take the pistol and club him on the shoulder.  
He begins to breathe heavy, panting, and he reaches for his pocket, nothing. He reaches for the other side, takes the pill bottle out and swallows two pills.

"Help me," he rasps, and I stand and wait. His breathing comes deeper, trying to get air. And he slumps down. Dead. 

My job is done I walk out of the alley.

I need my fix and now. But where?

* * *

Back at the hotel, I ask the bellboy, not wanting to be conspicuous about my need and understanding the concierge might throw me out.

"For the right dough, I'll do you, and you'll enjoy it," leering at me. Smart ass! I've never had a man but, I'm desperate.

" Five hundred Euro."

"For one thousand I'd do anything you want." So damn horny! Need it!

"Room 215 and quickly."

"Can do. I know the boss. He's my uncle, and I can take leave now." 

Up to my room beginning to unbutton my shirt when there's a knock at the door. I open it, realizing two things. One, he's young, in his late teens, and two he's male."

"My, my, my, you look like you're in a hurry," seeing my trousers wet.  


"Yes, yes, please!" the desperation showing in the sound of my voice.  


" Okay, okay, off with the clothes and on the bed. What do you want for starters?"  
His clothes off, thrown on the floor as mine are.

" A blowjob."  
Kicking off my pants, I lie down, already hard, pre-come dripping down my cock.  


"Oh you filthy man, look at you, sprawled out, waiting for my tongue."  


"Fucking hell, stop the talk, just do it," my voice gravelly.  


"Money first?" I jump up, get the envelope and throw the euros at him, not even counting it. Back on the bed, waiting.

"You want to feel my mouth on that thick, juicy, red cock don't you?" 

Crawling on the bed between my open legs, my arms over my head, his face close to my jerking cock.  


Fuck! Never had a man talk to me like that! It makes me moan, jittering my body.

His finger rounds my glans, the pre-come wetting his digit, and then he runs down my cock with a finger.

" I think I'll place a finger in your ass hole while sucking you, what say you?"  


"No, no," the notion horrid to me.  


"Oh, but you have no choice, you want me to do you, you take what I give."

* * *

Without another minute passing his finger is touching my hole and he inserts it. His mouth is dropping down on me, licking, sucking. Another finger and I cry out in pain.

"Next time I'll wet you, lube you up and stick my cock in there." 

His mouth back on my cock, I quickly come, jumping, shaking with the most intense orgasm, continuing over and over, my juices flowing over and on my body, he licks, sucks, every part of me shivering, jolting. When it's over, I lie there in a state of disbelief.

"My first time a man has done me,"my arm around him, satisfied.

" I haven"t had you yet. Believe me. The money you gave me is good for the night. Give me the night, and I'll show you what you've been missing," and he giggles.

* * *

Without hesitation, I say,"You've got it. Show me, do me. I'm all yours."

He may be a teen, but he's had a ton of experience. Telling me his story, Gilbert has known he was gay since puberty and has been with numerous men, young and old, to teach him.

* * *

This night Gilbert turns my world upside down! The passion he brings to me. As no woman has. I can't even describe it!

* * *

He's gone before I wake.

* * *

During the year I'm involved with a lot of undercover work. And my gun lets loose its power many a time.

And after each murder it's a male I seek to take care of my needs.

* * *

It's almost a year before I end up back in London and Mycroft's house. I've made plenty of money, most of it in bank accounts, and no regrets over anything.

* * *

There's a lull between jobs and one night with nothing to do I walk the streets of London. I find my self in a residential area, middle class. Not looking for anything in particular. Just enjoying the night, the sounds, and the lights.

* * *

Standing against the window of a closed clothing store I look up at the sky. No one is around me. At least that's what it seems like.

* * *

"That's a beautiful sliver of a moon tonight," a deep baritone voice says close to my ear. 

Startled, I turn, my heart skips. One, because I didn't know anyone was that close to me, and two, because this man is stunning looking. I feel as though a magnet is pulling us toward one another, and an electrical current is running through me.

"Uh, yes," my voice sounding like a stupid kid. Squeaky!

He's tall, but what catches me is his face. Sculptured deep cheekbones, pale, hair that curls lazily around his narrow face. And that long coat with the collar turned up, and leather gloves.

"Out alone tonight?" he casually asks. Is he going to proposition me? Would I turn him down? Not on your life!

"I am on my way home," chickening out. And then, oh then, those eyes descend on me. Even in the darkness, they bore into me, lightning eyes, sparkling, flashing.

" Army man, retired, doctor, a hired killer. A strange combination, don't you think?"

"How the hell do you know?" And then, oh then, his smile, at first a hint, and fuller still, quirking at the edges. The wrinkles at his eyes, the glitter in his eyes.

"You are aroused, are you not?" he says as casually as if he was asking the time of night. Here's your chance.

"Would you-?" My breath heavy with desire.

" Do you imagine that I would consider-?" his voice very matter-of-fact. Not offended, not approving.

Suddenly it all comes to a halt. He's a stranger, he's not some down and out, run of the mill street person.

"Sorry, so sorry. I mistook you for-" and turn away ready to run. He grabs my jacket, pulls me back to him.

" I'd concede to a dinner tomorrow night to make up for your error."

The sound of him, captures in the pit of my stomach, deep resonating.

"Dinner would be fine. Where?"  
He twists his head around and points to a Chinese restaurant across the street.

"There at six." I agree, he lets me go and I almost run home, ashamed at my stupidity.

* * *

Mycroft is in his office and I try to tiptoe upstairs.

"John, what are you up to?" he yells out.

"Nothing, Mycroft, "stumbling my way around those words.

" Something is not right, I can tell," stepping out and observing me, his mouth quirking up.

" Nothing really," and I turn to leave, knowing he's watching me.

* * *

All the next day I count the hours. Restless, anxious to know who this man is.  
Must have changed outfits at least three times before getting to the restaurant early.  
He's there, sitting facing the door.

* * *

" I like my men early."  
What does he mean by that? I like my men. Is he suggesting? I sit and before I can utter a word, "No, I will not give you my name." We order our meal, but I'm finding myself tongue-tied.

" You are paid good money for your profession, yet are not hounded by the law. Working for someone high up."

"How do you know all that?" A smirk crosses his face, then stops.

" But you are enamored of me. Why?" 

Coloring must show in my cheeks, "you are the most beautiful man I've ever seen, but that-."

Interrupting me, "that doesn't mean you want to what? Are you deluding yourself?"

"Okay, whoever you are, let me explain. Yes, you turn me on. But no, I am not gay."

"Yet you've enjoyed sex with males before. You were anticipating it from me."  
I turn my head, absolutely floored at this conversation!

" Stop. Just stop. I'm leaving now. This has gone too far." Half standing, I stop short and take the seat again.

" Can we find something else to discuss? Like who you are and what you do?"

" Why?"

Exasperated, "because the former subject is now off limits."

"Why? Is it your strict upbringing that curtails the discussion of your sexual tension. For that's what it is, isn't it?"

Why aren't you storming out? Why are you listening to that deep baritone voice cut slices into you?

"Okay, all wise, all knowing, I'd like a blowjob from you! How much will you take?" my eyes narrowed, lips compressed. 

Thinking he'll storm out now- but he pushes his chair back, crosses his legs, and calmly states, " I need drugs. I live on cocaine. Surprised?"

My heart is pounding, I'm disappointed. He has a price!

"I've disappointed you. I see it in your face. All men can be bought. Depends on the need." 

* * *

Food is at the table, but it is the least important now.

He leans forward, taking a sip of tea, "Still hesitant? What would you do for money?" I see the brief curling of his lip, "Kill?"

His voice is noncommittal, neither condemning or condoning.  
Taking a deep breath,"I've lost my appetite. You win. But, I don't want anything from you. At least not in that way," my face impassive," your friendship- to know you."

He leans back again, his legs splayed out, "Eat your food," and his face is veiled, "and we'll chance upon each other again. Some other place."

"And, when will we meet next, and where?"

"That's the fun of the chase, now isn't it? You'll never know," a cunning look from him. 

* * *

I try to converse with him, but he's all one word and nodding. I pay for our meal and once out the door; I gaze intently at him.

"Don't try to follow me. You might regret it," and he crosses the street and with my eyes, I watch him until he's a speck on the horizon. 

* * *

Days pass, I look for him everywhere.

* * *

Mycroft has let the cook have the night off and is in an apron, busy preparing the night's meal. It's favorite hobby of his, cooking. 

"John, what is on your mind? You've been pensive, preoccupied for weeks now."

"Yea, you're right. Bored. Really." Looking up as he's cutting carrots, "no it's something else." 

Twisting my head to one side, staring at this unreadable man I notice something, feel a twist in my gut.

"Mycroft, have you a relative living in London proper?"  
The knife poised in midair, he stares at it. 

"Yeeessss, a brother--."  


"Seen him recently?"  


"Stop playing coy. What is this about?"  


" Show me a picture. I might have run into him."  
Still not moving, "I'd rather not go into my personal life," and the knife commences chopping.

And that ends that.

* * *

"John I have something different for you. There's a small counterfeit gang in the city that we need to stop. Since I have no projects that you would usually be asked to venture into, this should keep you busy for awhile."

* * *

It was no trouble gathering them up with two other operators and hauling the perpetrators off to the station. 

And in amongst the violators stood- him- my curly headed man.

* * *

"One of these amateurs? No, I'm not," he reading my mind, his voice scorching in its disgust, "caught in the web, that's all."

Looking over to the detective booking the men, I pull him aside, " get his name, please, and give it to me,"pointing at him who is standing to one side of the ruckus.

"I know it already. Sherlock Holmes. He's a druggie. We take him in, and he goes to rehab and is right back at it. You work for his brother right?" 

My hunch was right. Why is Mycroft not helping him? I pull him away from the rest of the detainees, take his arm," Let's get out of here."

" Know who I am now?"

"Do you know I work for your brother?" Without saying anything I know he knows.

"I am not going to my brothers, " pulling away from me.

"You will come with me unless you want to be incarcerated along with the rest of that bunch."

"Old news," his voice sounding bored.

" Look Mister Sherlock Holmes, you've messed with me enough. You're coming with me if I have to shoot you first," determination strong in my voice.  
Surprise shows on his face

The git is challenging me.  
My gun is out, pointed at him.  
The detective runs over,"bloke giving trouble?"

" Stand back. I have orders to take him to my boss. However, I have to."

He turns and leaves us in the hallway, alone.

"You're not going to pull that trigger are you? I'm walking out of here now," and he heads for the front door.

"Sherlock," I yell, both hands on the gun, pulling the trigger, as he slightly turns to me. His eyes go wide in shock, a hand up to his shoulder, blood pouring out.  
He's down on one knee, the inspector along with others of the police force rush in, seeing the situation,"I'm calling an ambulance." 

Sherlock eyes never leave mine as I lower the gun, rushing to him.

" Your hands, they didn't shake. A man of conviction."

I call Mycroft, "I shot your brother in the shoulder. On our way to Barts Hospital right now," and without waiting for a reply I click off.

"Are you out of your mind, John Watson? I told you to stay out of my family's business," anger in every movement, every glare of his eyes, meeting in the emergency room. 

* * *

Sitting in the hallway, "I know him, at least I now know who he is." 

Inquisitive stare at me I begin to tell my story, leaving nothing out

* * *

The doctor informs us we can see Sherlock and he can be released tomorrow morning.  
Walking in, "Mycroft, you've got a good man there," Sherlock says acerbically.

Each man just eyeing the other, not a word between them.

* * *

Unbeknownst to me I was now a pawn between them. Who would claim John Watson as theirs? Mycroft as his agent, Sherlock as his companion.

* * *

Sherlock is out of the hospital, insisting on going back to his flat. He will not stay one day with Mycroft.  
I've had some time to think about what the hell I'm doing with my life.  
I'm throwing it away just as surely as Sherlock is.

_" Come to my flat tomorrow at five_

A text. From him. Not even questioning how he knew my phone number, but also to understand it's a command, not up for discussion.

* * *

Up the steps, and I see the door is open. Sherlock is standing by an armchair. I don't sit, don't move from the doorway and he doesn't invite me in.

"John, you once asked me if I'd have intercourse with you."

"That's not even-"

"I did not tell you to interrupt me," harshly spoken

"I would have intercourse, but only if you leave Mycroft as an agent and pursue your career as a doctor." 

Surprised, flattered in a way I hadn't expected.

"I'll tell you this. I'll forgo the offer of sex and do as you ask if you also change your life. Get away from the drugs, find something important to stimulate that mind of yours." 

Stock still, both of us weighing the words of the other. Sherlock moves to me, places his hand out and I take it, shaking it vigorously.

" Agreed. We will not see each other again until our objectives have been reached satisfactorily for each of us." 

And that handshake says it all, turning and going back down the steps, determination in my every stride to Mycroft's house.

My conversation with Mycroft begins that very evening. My plans solidify in my head as we speak.

* * *

"I do hope you reach all your goals. It has been my pleasure to have you inhabit my house. You know you are always welcome back."

* * *

It takes almost eight months to find a place to situate my clinic. It's in a small town way outside of London.

* * *

I've located and rented a cottage for myself. Two bedrooms, kitchen, a lovely old-fashioned sitting room with a massive fireplace. And a big plot of land where I can plant vegetables and flowers.

* * *

"Well, Mycroft, I owe you so much," bags packed and in his library saying our goodbyes.

"John, it has been mutual. And if there is anything you need, you can still count on me." 

* * *

Hiring another doctor and two nurses for the clinic, I settle into a routine that allows me time for lots of reading and playing at gardener.

* * *

My heart does a little twist when I come upon an article in the London paper announcing one Sherlock Holmes becoming a detective and working for the police department.

* * *

Both of us have turned our lives around to something worthwhile.

* * *

Thinking I will hear from him soon my heart gives a slight jump. But, nothing comes. No text, no call, no visit. He must surely know where I am and what I am doing! Well, I guess the man has forgotten me.

* * *

"Mycroft, how nice of you-"

"No time for niceties, John. My car will be at your door soon. Sherlock has been shot and is in a coma." 

My heart racing I pack a duffel bag, call the clinic and tell them I'll be away for awhile, and rush into the car.

I think it's about five months since I last saw the article in the paper.

* * *

Reaching the hospital I run in and find Mycroft at the front desk and without a sound, he turns, walks to the elevator and I follow.

"How bad?"

"He was hit in the chest, missed the vitals, but is in and out of this coma. Doctors said he should recover, but it will be lengthy." 

Before we enter the room, Mycroft grabs me by the shoulders and stares into my eyes.

"My brother has made a complete turnaround, and it's you I have to thank for this. Now, let's see if you can help him further."

"No, this was his doing. He did it himself. I had nothing to do with any of it. I can't take the credit."

"But when you hear what he is saying in his delirious state, I think you will understand what I mean."

I open my mouth to question him, and he stops me.  


"No, let me explain my statement. He called your name once and now every once in a while speaks. I don't know what he's referring to, but I have to assume it's something to do with you. I'll stay here. You go on in." 

I move out of his grip to open the door, my anxiety level high.

* * *

On the bed is a pale, no white-faced, Sherlock. Almost as white as the hospital sheets. IVs, a nasal cannula in his nose to help his breathing and a pulse-ox on his finger.

"Sherlock, it's John here," my hand running up and down his free arm. Without opening his eyes, but I detect a slight upturning of his lips, "That's a beautiful sliver of a moon tonight." 

That's the first sentence that Sherlock said to me at our meeting. Not remembering that whole dialogue, all I can do is a quick, "Yes it is."

" Army man, retired, doctor, hired killer. A strange combination, don't you think?" his strength obviously sapped, his sound raspy.

"How the hell did you know that?" recalling my next sentence that night, answering him.

His eyes open, his face slightly turns to me, "You are aroused, are you not?"

Tears fall down my face, laughing at the same time.

"Oh yes, Sherlock, yes. Very aroused."

"Water, please," a very weak sounding whisper from him. I retrieve some water and help him taste a little, holding the cup in one hand and raising his head with the other.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

A twinkle in his eyes at the joke, the idea of him walking out.

Leaving the room I tell Mycroft that Sherlock is awake. He doesn't ask about the babblings Sherlock was making and I don't explain. The doctors are called in.

* * *

"John, a big favor. I have to be in France for awhile and Sherlock will need support. Would you take him to your home?" 

Without question, I nod yes,"If he'll be agreeable to it I will."

* * *

Taken in Mycroft's car to my cottage Sherlock is peevish the whole way.

He and I haven't spoken much at all since I first arrived in his room, and if I try, he turns away. I must admit now that I don't really know who Sherlock Holmes is. After all, we've only met briefly each time.

"I'm going to have to leave you alone much of the time. I do have my clinic to get back to," after showing him around and getting him settled in his bedroom. 

He has a bandage wrapped around his middle and the dressing has to be changed regularly. I need to make sure he eats well and doesn't strain his wound.

"While you're here I have a neighbor who'll bring food to us each day." He harrumphs and goes into his room shutting the door. This could be hard going.

We begin a set routine. I get up early and make him breakfast, change his bandages and bike to the clinic. I find I enjoy the beauty of the countryside more if I bike around.

* * *

One rainy day, a week later, Sherlock doesn't want to get out of bed.

"What's wrong?" Turning his face away from me and curling up in a fetal position I become anxious. I make a quick call to my staff nurse and let her know I won't be in today.  
Making eggs, toast, and tea I carry it in on a tray to his bedroom and sit on the edge, the tray on the nightstand.

"Sherlock, sit up and eat with me. I'm staying home today."

"Go away! Get out," he literally shouts at me. Taken aback at this I stand, but don't leave.

"I don't know what's bothering you but have some tea."

"And if I don't are you going to shoot me-again?" his anger boiling over at those words.

"Are you always going to hold that over my head," sighing deeply and regretfully.

Carefully turning to face me, "I shouldn't have said that. It's a sore spot for me. You shot me," his tone softer.

"You know why. I'd give anything to take that back. But I had to prevent you from-,"

"Yea, yea," in a mocking voice, "to keep me off cocaine."

" I tell you what. Would you like to have breakfast in the living room and we can talk about all of this. We barely know each other."

"I want to leave-now," all of a sudden that voice becomes hard, unyielding.  
He pushes himself up and tries to stand, unsuccessfully, wobbling, sitting back on the bed. I move in front to block him.

"Why do you want to leave? What is it?" as realization dawns, and my anger boils over.

"Bored, aren't you? Wanting some relief? Some shooting up, are you thinking?" 

And without a moments thought my open hand slaps him across the face. His hand moves to his face, but not before I see the red mark laying on his cheek. Instantly regretting my action I place my hand over his, which he throws off.

"Damn it! That was a dumb move on my part. But, I guessed right didn't I?"

No answer but a simmering undercurrent exists.

" Let me help you up, and if you want to go,"hesitating, "you're free to," giving out my arm to pull him up.

"Would you let me go that easily?" some surprise there.

"I can't hold you. And if you want to ruin your life it's not mine to stop," a determination, a lack of feeling envelops me.  
Arm around his waist as I walk him into the living room and sit him in a chair, wrapping a throw around him, I go back and get our now cold breakfast.

"I'll make some eggs and warm up the tea and take you back to Mycroft."

The cottage descends into an uneasy quiet as I putter around the kitchen.

Walking in with a new tray, Sherlock looks up at me, "That's a beautiful sliver of a moon tonight," soft, asking forgiveness with those words.  
Putting the silver tray on the coffee table, I have the want to touch him, to ruffle his hair, instead, I pour the tea.  
An ease comes over both of us, a sudden way of communicating our mutual liking.

"Now," breaking the silence he says, "how are we to go around this minefield?"

"It's easy. We have a stick in front of us, and we tap at each step, lightly, exploring, until we're out of the danger zone and into the open," Sherlock's way of explaining what is needed is very concise.

* * *

The rest of the morning and afternoon is talking, talking. Actually, we even veer off our personal lives to discuss politics, history. Inbetween my neighbor knocks and brings in lunch.

"Oh my, Doctor Watson, I did not know you were home also! Give me ten minutes and I'll whip up something for you." 

We drink an abundance of tea and water, I change Sherlock's dressing and find that late in the afternoon he's beginning to drift off. I tiptoe out of the room and let him snooze until dinner.

* * *

I walk over to my neighbor, Mrs. Walsh, an elderly lady, widowed, in her fifties. She loves taking care of me since no one else in her family lives near her.

"Mrs. Walsh, thanks so much for all you've been doing. " Her cottage is the exact same as mine. She has lots of little statues all around the house, animals, birds, people. She is a fabulous cook.

"Anytime Doctor Watson and how is your guest?"

"Coming along. I'll make dinner for tonight though. He's getting restless but still can't get around much. Not sure what to do."

"Leave it to me. I'll think of something," this dear lady says with a smile. Wonder what?

Upon returning Sherlock is awake and is reading a book which I glance at.

"Oh, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea! Didn't think you'd like that? I'm reading it for the first time in years."

"You can have it back. I saw it sitting on the table and it was the easiest to get to,"closing it and placing it back. 

Laughing, "don't worry. If you like it keep reading. I can catch up on it some other time."

* * *

Our dinner is simple. Baked chicken, green beans, and a sweet potato with cinnamon and butter. A green salad.

"How about getting up and sitting at the kitchen table?" Helping him up, he leans on me and a shiver, for the first time since we met, runs through me.

"You are aroused, are you not?" his voice mocking me, seeing through me.

"Stop it, Sherlock, just stop." I can't look up at him so I bustle around, puttering with pots and dishes. I know he's deliberately watching my moves. Finished, I clean up with him trying to help," I have to go to the clinic tomorrow. I'll have Mrs. Walsh look in on you from time to time."

"Don't trust me? Where would I get drugs in this godforsaken place?" I don't answer, but know that some of the meds he's taking could be, in a large dose, as bad as cocaine. We watch some television, snack on ice cream and off to bed.

The next morning I awake and take care of Sherlock and make breakfast. Tucking him in the armchair in the living room, the book on the table, tv remote next to him, I take off for work. Apprehensive of course.  
I call Mrs. Walsh during the day and get no answer on her phone. She only has a land line so I have to wait.  
Apprehensive.  
I open the door of my cottage to see- Sherlock and Mrs. Walsh-knitting?

"John, look,"holding up a green something," I'm making you a scarf."  
Mrs. Walsh is grinning like a Chesire cat. And it's infectious. I too am grinning. She found something to keep him busy.

Each day now Mrs. Walsh is at the cottage and she and Sherlock knit and chat about who knows what.

* * *

But there s one exchange between us that seems off limits but crackles in the air at odd moments. It weaves around us, placing a hint here, a touch there.

* * *

We've finished watching a comedy show, and I turn the television off. All becomes still. I don't know what to say.

"Have you forgiven me for mistaking you for a hooker? Is that still on the table?" watching his face closely.

"Long forgiven," he sputters, with a wide smile he continues, "still not entirely over having a gunshot wound," his fingers playing on his shoulder.

"Well,yea. Hard to deal with that I imagine," myself still not happy about that event.

"Especially when a friend thought he was performing a good deed," kind of a chuckle, a wry smile.

* * *

Sherlock can get around now pretty much on his own.  
But this night, something takes hold of me, and I rise with him and place my arm around his waist. He stops moving, turns his face to me and very tenderly says,"You are aroused, are you not?"

I can't resist any longer and answer with, "would you-?"

" Do you imagine that I would consider-?"

"Yes Sherlock Holmes," a deep breath," and so would I."


End file.
